Olivia lets several minicabs go by. "After what happened earlier, I think I want a cabdriver who's possibly looked at a map of London once or twice." A black taxi passes by, already taken, and then a free one pulls over for her. "It was lovely to see you, Rupert," she says, hugging Giles tightly. "And I'm pleased for you," she adds in a whisper. "I like him, and you seem . . . so much happier
( ... )
Giles' skin burns through the spectrum, green yellow orange red white, Oz's every touch leaving phosphorescent trails. Like an infrared photograph, glowing, zigzag patterns where Oz's mouth traveled over him, outlines of lips and long stroking fingermarks, and behind his eyelids Giles can see it all, watch his own skin from inside. See himself limned with kisses, made visible by Oz's desire.
Echo and amplification, strengthening mirror, of his own desire, of his own hands and mouth on Oz's skin, of every bit of pleasure he's ever tried to give. Nothing lost, everything found and returned, and Giles hears it overflow into his grunts and choked moans and half-formed words. "Yes," he's saying, "yes, yes, fuck me, yes," and Oz is answering with tongue on skin, slickhot words twisting silently down between his legs, down there where Giles is tight and closed and secret
( ... )
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Echo and amplification, strengthening mirror, of his own desire, of his own hands and mouth on Oz's skin, of every bit of pleasure he's ever tried to give. Nothing lost, everything found and returned, and Giles hears it overflow into his grunts and choked moans and half-formed words. "Yes," he's saying, "yes, yes, fuck me, yes," and Oz is answering with tongue on skin, slickhot words twisting silently down between his legs, down there where Giles is tight and closed and secret ( ... )
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